


On This Foundation of Sand

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: 8 months post-Shelly's death, Angst, Comfort Sex, M/M, Miles and I share a love of George Washington, Miloe cuddles, narration focuses on Miles, rise of the Monroe Militia, sad Bass, spoilers for 2.06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Monroe Militia rises, Miles struggles to balance his responsibilities and care for his grief-hobbled friend...with comfort sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On This Foundation of Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'll stop writing boring Miloe sex soon, but no promises. Tenae and I are working on a very complex collaboration, and that is sapping my brain's ability to come up with anything original in my own writing... Meanwhile, the boys continue to insist on making love.

Rain _plip-plops_ on their tent. Every now and then a viscous splash finds it way to the sole of Miles’ bare foot through a breech in the canvas. It smells of ozone and wet asphalt, as they’re bivouacked alongside what was once highway 84 near Newburgh, New York. This is the place where George Washington’s officers, after eight long years as grist for the mill of the new republic, broke down from lack of civilian support and threatened a military coup. But Washington – that steadfast, exemplary general – talked them out of it. He cried over their mutual sacrifices, kissed their cheeks, and reminded them of the great cause for which they had bled.

Or something like that. Miles never really paid attention in school, but he did like military history. Bass always liked the Civil War best, but Miles prefers the Revolution, is inspired by the greatest general who ever lived. How incredibly twisted and unpredictable is life that here he and Bass are now, forging their own ragtag army into something respectable? And what will come of it all? Answering such questions has never been Miles’ strong suit. That is all Bass. But Bass isn’t…well, he isn’t _home_ these days, though he’s right there beneath Miles. So it’s pointless to ask.

Eight months ago, the Blackout claimed Bass’ wife, his baby, and, it seems, his sanity. And in a dramatic hemorrhage of apparent sympathy, the entire Northeast has gone to war. What are these exactly – _vigilantes? militias?_ – have been rising from the time-weathered Appalachian hills to slit the throats of not just one or two people in the name of hunger, as in the early anarchy, but now 50, 100 people at a time, and _for what?_ A resource war? Yes. But also something else – something more twisted. After years in the Black, the same shadow that settled into Bass’ crevices has begun to claim others. Too much death, too much heartache. Human beings have limits.

This kind of war must have been what it was like in the clannish days of cavemen. Little pockets of savagery wherever you turn. Because Miles and Bass are skilled at this, are trained leaders, they’d garnered a collection of “recruits” before they’d even realized it. Despite the difficulty of obtaining weapons, the inadequacies of training soldiers on the job, the gut-straining anxiety of maintaining a roving force supplied from the land, Matheson and Monroe find they win _every_ engagement. Why? Because they’re Marines with the best military training in the world. And frankly, Miles (with Bass at his side) has a mind for this – leading men, strategy, tactics. Who knew?

“Miles,” Bass’ voice scrapes against his vocal chords. Miles’ cheek is pressed against the stubbled neck, so he feels the vibration as much as he hears the word. He’s buried inside Bass, Bass’ legs spread open, hips jutted up on a rolled-up jacket. Miles is gripping Bass more tightly than is probably pleasant, as Miles weighs a million stressors – what direction to head tomorrow, how to get the troops to stop firing early from nerves, and if the man underneath him is beginning to stabilize or is lost for good.

Miles feels his way back into the moment. If he weren’t so night-blind in the tent, Miles would be able to see the crimson speckled across their cheeks and necks from battle. Bass has probably got poor Chester’s brains matted in his curls. They could have at least washed up out of respect for the dead, but they were tired, and Bass looked so desperate. Miles only knows one way to comfort, and that is with his body. When he slides his hand to Bass’ crusty cheek he finds wet there, and that’s not unusual. Bass cries every time they make love these days.

Miles sighs and resumes thrusting long and deep into Bass’ quivering body. Burying his face in the bedroll Bass uses as a pillow, Miles welcomes suffocation in Bass’ leathery, heady scent.

“Sorry,” Bass mutters blandly.

Miles freezes. “Am I hurting you?” He lifts his face to try to make out something specific from the wrinkles of agony that always pinch Bass’ face at night.

“No. I just…”

Miles sighs again and plunks forward into Bass’ lips, not really kissing, just resting, feeling Bass’ bottom lip tremble uncontrollably. Miles has no idea how to help his friend. He’s overwhelmed by responsibility to their men and to _this_ man.

“It’s okay,” he returns quietly into Bass' mouth. Honestly, he doesn’t even know what they’re talking about. He never knows anymore in their private moments. The battlefield is the only place where things make sense to either of them right now.

Miles draws a hand between them over the ridges of Bass’ smooth, sculpted chest and abdomen, until he meets wiry hair and penis – entirely soft and vulnerable. _Oh, Bass._ Not even slightly hard. It just makes Miles sad, and he feels like giving up. Bass swallows, emitting the most tragic little garbling sound. _No._ Miles _won’t_ give up on trying to make Bass feel something good. Miles digs in his hips, and Bass puffs out. Then, kissing Bass with all the passion Miles can muster, he gingerly strokes the velvety cock, urging it to life.

“Come on, Bass. I’ve got you,” Miles reassures. He rolls the cock a little harder and stirs with his pelvis, looking for that spot at the center of Bass that takes away the pain. 

Abruptly, Bass pulls his mouth away and buries his face in the slope of Miles’ shoulder. Bass is a leaky faucet of tears. Mile tries not to smell the metallic on Bass’ hair and that other indistinct odor – you know, _insides_. Christ, a man’s brains. They should have washed up.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Miles says into one of Bass’ shudders.

“Don’t stop.”

Miles thrusts harder, pulls on Bass' cock, rough but tender. Nothing happens.

Then, Bass’ body clenches rather suddenly, like it’s surprised at its own deficiency, and it makes Miles freeze with a gasp. Miles is coming, though he’s holding completely still and trying to resist biology.

“Oh Jesus,” Miles whispers and has to let it wash over him, strangely gentle and satisfying. He feels bad he couldn’t help Bass, but he can’t fight his body’s chemicals that tell him he is happy and soothed and in love. 

Miles lets his dick slip out on his own seed and settles down into Bass, kissing him, holding him. Miles is so damn tired, and the bones, hair, and sweat of them ground together feels so good.

“Sorry. Not much fun to fuck a basketcase, right?” Bass half-heartedly laughs, burrowing his lips against Miles’ neck.

“Shh,” Miles whispers, face immersed again in the makeshift pillow. “Am I crushing you?” his voice is so muffled, he’s surprised Bass has heard.

“You’re the only thing _not_ crushing me.”

Miles rolls off to the side anyway and pulls his lover against him. “Bass, look at me.”

Bass opens his eyes, near-black in the dark.

“This thing we’re building together…”

“Which thing? This?” Bass grabs the hair of Miles’ chest. “Or that?” he gestures beyond the wall of tent.

“Um…either. You gonna be okay?”

Bass swallows. “Don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Bass’ tone is caught between tepid amusement and disbelief.

“Well. What can I say, Bass? I’ll just keep trying.” 

“Thanks.”

Miles hugs Bass tighter and surrenders a final sigh to the distant _hoo_ -ing of an owl.


End file.
